Bright Like Lightning
by Rosage
Summary: Even Simon's subordinate exerts control over him, and it's all he can do to reclaim a piece. Unfortunately for him, storms can't be contained. Bobby/Simon
1. Friction and a Spark

_Warnings: Abuse, dubious consent, dual destinies spoilers, erotic electrostimulation, frequent death and suicide mentions, and the fact that much of this is unexplored territory for me._

_- Simon's crying is based off of information from the art book._

_- Thank you to madamtiresias for being my beta. _

xxxxxxx

The first time, Simon isn't expecting it. He never thought Fool Bright capable of subduing him—his initial impression was of a fool with no restraint, amusing to tease and handy to have around but useless in situations requiring ruthlessness. So when Simon's doing nothing more harmless than flirting with the attorney, he's unprepared for the jolt of pain that paralyzes him before he collapses over the bench, clutching his heaving chest and glaring.

It's not just the lack of control, which he hates, or the fact that his lungs and heart feel crushed, reminding him of the mortality he'd rather not remember. It's not even just the violation of trust, or that Fool Bright is _laughing, _confirming Simon's suspicion that this is all a joke—if not justice, then at least his 'belief' in a death row inmate, his little project. It's that while the detective might be loud, he was the first person in years that Simon believed to be harmless. He, of all people, should have known better.

He's barely unleashed half a threat before Fool Bright presses the remote, once again sending Simon doubling over. His dignity crumbles, and he closes his eyes. He is in public for the first time in six years, his niece stands across the room, the chief is awaiting a report, and his subordinate is torturing him. He cannot even choke out a _silence_.

He'd thought, while standing at the bench with straight shoulders and proper attire, that he could regain his pride, if only for an hour. Clearly that was too much for a convict to hope.

His first trial in years comes to end, and Simon's mind is elsewhere. Officers approach to escort him; their touch makes him uneasy, but at least they aren't Fool Bright. Across the room, Simon catches his eye, and the fool grins. Simon manages to scowl for half a moment before breaking contact, though that grin stays with him, mocking him as he exits the court.

xxxxxxx

Thanks to that defendant's hammy act, the case isn't finished, meaning it's not long before Simon is meeting with Fool Bright. The detective acts the same as always—Simon's noticed that Fool Bright doesn't seem aware of when to adjust his demeanor, and the psychologist in him feels a flicker of suspicion before he willfully writes it off as obliviousness. Regardless, he's on his guard, watching Fool Bright for signs of aggression and—to his shame—flinching when the man reaches for his pocket (he only pulls out a time piece, which is odd when he's wearing one, but Simon's used to his partner behaving irrationally).

"You know," Fool Bright says while they're discussing the other suspects, "the defendant told us L'Belle can't be the killer, even though that narrows down his scapegoats."

Shuffling through profiles, Simon only grunts, which Fool Bright correctly interprets as a sign to continue. "He didn't have any evidence of that, but L'Belle is his subordinate. It's not surprising he'd stick up for him, really."

"And you're one to speak of loyalty?" The jab is out before Simon can resist. It's not as if the police in this accursed place haven't treated him to violence, but he still remembers how empowered being assigned a subordinate made him feel, and how pleased he'd been to find one eager to be at his beck and call.

Fool Bright's hands fly into the air, palms forward. "Are you accusing me of being anything but faithful?" Simon rolls his eyes and holds up a cuffed wrist, prompting Fool Bright to adjust his sunglasses. "Ah…that. You know, if you simply behave, that won't have to happen again."

Simon doesn't answer. He can recognize manipulation, and he's sure this falls under it. After all, he's done nothing to deserve torture. Has he?

His head throbs. He suddenly can't remember.

No, he can. For his master's sake, he's molded himself into the sort of person given capital punishment. If he's convinced even the one who 'believes' in him, well, isn't he succeeding?

He weighs the justification before resuming studying files. Unusually powerless boss or not, he's still a prosecutor, and his duty to justice takes priority.

xxxxxxx

Enough weeks of confinement pass between cases that before each one, Simon leaps at the chance to stretch his wings. Every time, the 'Jolt of Justice' strikes him down before he's lifted off. Though corporal punishment is routine, Fool Bright still manages to surprise him through his absurd timing—letting Simon run amok, only to taze him for not responding courteously to the judge? Simon learns he can't trust he won't be shocked at any given moment.

Except in prison, oddly enough. Only in public, where it shames him most, does Fool Bright torture him; in jail, Fool Bright only disciplines Simon through scolding that he easily brushes off. It becomes a sort of frustration as Simon readies himself for an attack that never comes, resulting in tension that remains after Fool Bright leaves.

Nighttime brings worse sources of tension. Rattling and coughing make his skin crawl while screams pierce more deeply, but it's the moans and unidentifiable sounds from the building itself that unsettle him most, as it's impossible not to imagine ghosts slipping out of the cracks. Of course, nothing external can be worse than the torment inside his mind, rot and decay and a memory of the moment he stopped living.

One night, his fits are especially bad. The moon is the exact crescent shape of the crest on Metis's lab coat, and he tosses and turns and cries as hard as he had his first year in the clink. As always, he doesn't wipe his tears, letting them slide down the tracks they've molded.

In his thrashing, the mattress creaks, causing him to cover his ears. He wants silence_, _he wants stillness, and he won't get it until several more months of this torture…

Torture…he remembers the tazer and winces. Must that grating laugh haunt him now? Yet at least if Fool Bright assaulted him, he would be unable to move, and the bloody mattress would shut up.

With that thought, something odd happens. As if reliving the experience, he locks up, but instead of pain a gentle tingling spreads over him. Immediately he feels a sense of wrongness, but the sensation isn't unpleasant, so he latches onto it. He returns to those events, this time in tentative exploration. He removes the setting, the onlookers, the surprise, focusing on his body shaking before freezing while his real body barely twitches.

Stillness. His chest isn't heaving, but his breath comes more heavily than expected.

His face is hot. All of him is hot, he realizes with embarrassment. He pictures Fool Bright's smile and grows hotter.

_Well. This is unexpected._ He's far too tired to be horrified, too relieved that the sobs wracking him have stopped. In the next cell, an inmate screams, but Simon is too numb to be disturbed. _At last, _he thinks.

xxxxxxx

He doesn't see Fool Bright again for a week, during which several abysmal nights wipe the recent one from his mind. When he spots that white suit among the grey it comes back to him, and for the first time while in an alert state of mind he realizes what he'd fantasized about, that it had _been _a fantasy.

Master of psychology as he is, he doesn't let his embarrassment show, keeping his face masked while they sit at a meeting room table. Fool Bright dismisses the guard—he always does—an act Simon once thought of as foolishly trusting that now makes him suspicious. He dismisses the thought; whether or not Fool Bright is simple, Simon _wants _him to be, and there's nothing he can do about it either way.

Fool Bright straightens a stack of paper, making a clacking sound against the table. "The warden tells me you've stopped writing your reflections."

An interesting way of putting it, given that Simon's 'essays' had included such gems as a drawing of a caged falcon and an arbitrary segment of script from _The Phantom of the Opera. _"If a shadow looks in a mirror, is there a use in describing what it sees?" he asks, rolling his chin to affect the image of an apathetic delinquent.

Fool Bright crosses his legs, clasping his bare ankle. "That's…an interesting question, but I know for a fact there's a self in you waiting to show. Why, what of that spark I see whenever you act in court?"

Simon is now genuinely bored. "Did you remember to feed Taka?" he asks, scratching his ear.

"Are you listening to…yes, yes, of course I did."

The topic of his partner gives Simon fondness. Taka is the closest thing he has to a child, he muses before thinking of the interaction in that light and wrinkling his nose. It occurs to him he allows someone who's betrayed him to feed Taka, and that concerns him.

Still…sitting across from the big Labrador Retriever of a man, exchanging banter interspersed with silence (not enough silence—Fool Bright has a hundred irritating habits, including whistling and tapping his foot, that he uses to fill space), Simon has a hard time truly believing him to be unsafe. Simon has little to trust anyone with—Taka, investigations, and that's about it—and Fool Bright carries the keys to all of it. The one thing Simon does not trust him with is his safety, but does safety matter to someone who volunteered for the gallows?

A cough brings Simon out of his introspection. Fool Bright neatens the stack again before pushing it across the table. "Write something—anything. Pretty please?"

_Are you a grown man or a five year old asking for candy? _Then again, Simon considered writing the word 'anything,' so he isn't one to speak of mental age. "And what would be the point?"

"Creative expression does wonders for rehabilitation. It doesn't have to be conventional; I found your choice of script interesting. You really have it memorized?"

Used to Fool Bright's non sequiturs, Simon ignores him and picks up the pen. He knows by now that scribbling something Fool Bright can cry about the hidden meaning of is the fastest way to leave the room. Absently he scratches the pen across the page while considering which song lyrics to quote, or perhaps a samurai movie…

The marks fall in a zigzag pattern. He doubles back until a bolt of lightning splits the page.

Wires connect—electricity crackling, the smell of something burning…not real, but imagined so vividly that Simon shivers. A shadow passes over the top of the page as Fool Bright leans across the table. "Have you thought of something, Prosecutor?"

"When was the last time this bloody prison paid its heating bills?" Sweat is collecting under Simon's shirt, hopefully out of sight to cover his flimsy misdirection. Seeming disappointed, Fool Bright settles back.

"Ah, well, I'll speak to the warden, but crime doesn't pay, you know."

It's kind of funny, but Simon hides his appreciation of it and runs his eyes back and forth across his 'art.' Oddly, the action calms him, which must show since Fool Bright makes a point of how successful the session is and how they should do it more often.

xxxxxxx

When he closes his eyes that night, Simon sees the lightning. It's windy outside, and the rustling leaves aid his imagination. If the prison had proper windows, he'd wish for a real storm, but as it is, he can only pretend.

Storms have power, he muses. Lightning can only destroy, but rain provides necessary nourishment. Still, the uprooted trees can hardly appreciate a drink. That's as far as his poetics extend before he remembers the book of Japanese poetry Metis gifted him with and the tears begin to fall.

Crying has long been his way of honoring her, the only way given to him until it's time to face the gallows. Yet with few months left, he's restless enough to want a distraction. It's more self-serving than he's comfortable with to picture lightning sliding through the window and wrapping him like rope (restraining him, keeping others safe), extending along his skin with a buzz that's revitalizing and energizing and…dare he think it? Electrifying.

Inevitably, Fool Bright enters the picture like a clap of thunder. Simon grimaces. He has to admit the man is all energy, even if it leaves Simon himself drained. There's a certain…'charisma' is not the right word, he's too odd, too erratic, but he seems to simultaneously draw attention to himself and fit into any scene. He could come in like a hurricane and leave only a hydrated flower in his wake, or enter as a light patter and burn a trunk to a crisp.

Tentatively, Simon develops a theory. That if circumstances were different, if Fool Bright weren't tazing him with the voltage necessary to subdue him, if they weren't in public, if Simon agreed to—no, _instigated_ it, that…he'd enjoy it.

The confession hangs in his mind like humidity. He knows it's pointless—circumstances aren't different—but he hadn't thought that even now he could find a new experience, a new piece of himself to explore. The possibility leaves him almost drunk.

It wouldn't be ideal, but all it would take to test the theory would be to incite Fool Bright to taze him within the prison. Well, his master, her poetry, and the her power might be out of his reach, but that should certainly be attainable. He uses the hours before dawn to plan.


	2. Charge, Me

When he wakes, the exhilaration is gone, and he wonders what he was thinking. Fool Bright's attacks aren't the light buzz of Simon's dreams, and a private setting won't stop his chest from heaving or control from slipping further from his grasp.

But that's just it; perhaps by being an active agent in the process, he can reclaim something—anything to grab onto, even though he knows that uprooting a tree won't replant the ones already fallen. If nothing else, he has a reputation as a rebel to uphold, and the urge to uphold it is helped along when Fool Bright brags about his rehabilitation's soothing effect. When later that week Fool Bright passes Simon paper with expectant eyes, Simon sits unflinchingly, arms crossed, for several minutes while Fool Bright babbles encouragement. As usual, his cold stare doesn't seem to wear Fool Bright down, so when he grows bored he examines a chipped nail, scratches at the edge of his cuffs, then stands and bangs his fists on the table, breaking the chain with a satisfying crash.

With a split second of delay Fool Bright throws his hands up. "Prosecutor Blackquill…?"

"I've had it with this rubbish," Simon says.

"But Sir, you were doing so well."

Simon throws his head back and laughs, growing more comfortable as he settles into his performance. "You honestly thought that I, Simon Blackquill, could be tamed by a mere diary?"

"Well, haven't you been more docile? Is this some kind of extinction burst?" It's not, but Simon doesn't feel like going into psychology with him. He smirks.

"You bore me. Shall we raise the stakes?" He grabs the pen, his only available weapon, and considers his next move. Threatening suicide would be going too far for even him. Still, Fool Bright seems to catch onto the potential seriousness as he stands, positioning himself above Simon until Simon straightens. They stare each other down, both unblinking. Fool Bright's hand twitches; Simon's heart thumps in both fear and anticipation.

It's in that moment when Simon is caught up in the thrill, his sensory awareness tenfold its usual (he feels the weight of his clothes, his bangs tickling his forehead, his balance shifting as he loosens his hips), that Fool Bright catches him off guard, leaping across the table and tackling him.

Simon was prepared for a shock—he is _not _prepared for the full girth of a six-foot tall, muscular detective barreling him over. The chair hits the ground and Simon's back hits the wall while he grapples with Fool Bright. Their wrestling doesn't last long, as as soon as Fool Bright has torn the pen from Simon's grasp, he throws his arms around Simon and begins to wail.

"Oh, Sir, I didn't know you were so miserable—I should have seen the signs…!"

Simon is not even sure what signs Fool Bright is talking about, as he's been miserable for six and a half years and has no intention of cheating the system out of the last few months, but he's too embarrassed by Fool Bright's display to care. "That's enough, Fool Bright! Let go of me at once, or I swear…"

Fool Bright backs off, pulling out his handkerchief and sniffing dramatically. "Forgive me, Sir, I'm just so overcome…but we'll get through this together."

At this point Simon's perpetual fatigue catches up to him, and he wishes he'd never begun this madness. He remembers the reason he started it and again wonders what he was thinking, but dropping it now would make the whole affair a waste of time. "You're not going to punish me?"

"Ordinarily I might, but I wouldn't dream of it now. I'm not sure what has you so disturbed, but rest assured that Bobby Fulbright, hero of justice, is on your side."

"But—!" Simon clamps his mouth shut as if Taka's beak is pinching it. While Fool Bright opens his as if to speak, he catches Simon's eyes darting furtively to the pocket housing the remote, and his lips form a silent _oh_.

"Did you…want…?"

"Silence." In his mortification, it's all Simon can manage. The handkerchief hangs from Fool Bright's fingertips. He blinks.

"You…_like _when I punish you, Sir?" Simon doesn't, but the words and the curious tone Fool Bright says them in (quieter than usual—who knew Fool Bright could be quiet?) affect him, and he's never flushed at a more unfortunate time.

"I'm simply shocked that an officer of justice is being so derelict in his duty as to let a convict get away with flagrant misbehavior." Simon speaks in a quick mumble, managing not to laugh at his unintentional pun. Fool Bright does laugh, oddly worsening Simon's blush.

"Oh, I get it, it's your sense of responsibility. Fortunately, there's not much you can get away with in prison. Other than…well, I suppose we'll keep pens away until we have paperwork. I'll let it slide, all right?" Fool Bright claps a hand on Simon's shoulder, making Simon wince and leaving the skin burning. After being given a fresh set of cuffs, Simon returns to his cell, feeling thoroughly foolish.

xxxxxxx

Wanting to 'keep an eye' on him, Fool Bright arranges a meeting two days later. Simon can hardly refuse appointments, so he finds himself again seated across from Fool Bright, this time with only a couple of Styrofoam cups on the table.

"Thought you might appreciate some coffee. Those bags get worse every time I see you, you know."

Simon prefers tea, but he won't turn down the beverage. He doesn't give it his attention yet, casting a suspicious eye on the guard by the door, a man in perhaps his forties whose blond hair Simon once dyed green in part of a prison-wide prank.

"You know I like to give you the benefit of the doubt," Fool Bright says, following Simon's gaze, "but I told the warden about your recent instability and she insisted I have someone help look out for you."

Apparently vain about the thin scruff he considers a mane, the guard would probably hold open the shutter if Simon decided to jump, but he supposes he can't rely on Fool Bright to pick a guard who's fond of him (not that there is such a thing). Fool Bright rests his elbows on the table and his chin on top of his hands. "I thought you and I could have a talk. I'm sure it's lonely in prison, with only villains to talk to…" It's obvious by the words he means to sound soothing, but his voice is used to filling a room, and there's a quality to it like a piece of steel wool trying to pass itself off as cotton. He leans closer. "How about telling me what's been on your mind?"

"Murder," Simon deadpans. Fool Bright laughs.

"Something else, maybe?"

"No."

Another laugh. Simon's eyes wander, though there's not much to look at besides the guard, who's breaking statue protocol by staring at him with distaste.

"How about we try something new?" Fool Bright says. "I'll throw some words out, and you tell me how they make you feel."

Simon bites back a groan. The last thing he wants to do is discuss his feelings with Fool Bright—at least in the daytime, with a guard nearby who hates his guts. He sips the coffee, which tastes predictably like swill, and cradles the cup to warm his hands.

"Have you forgotten which one of us is the psychologist?" Simon asks.

"In justice we trust! I can adapt to perform any service people require."

If Simon leaves, he'll have to leave the cup's warmth behind, and he's not eager to come up with another distraction. "Then let's get this waste of time over with."

"All right. First word—justice."

Simon has to smile. Even storms have predictable elements, he thinks. "Trust."

He expects that to please Fool Bright, but Fool Bright scratches his head. "Is...that an emotion?"

"This exercise requires no discussion. Next word."

"Jail."

"Despair."

"Chains."

"Powerless."

"Ghosts."

Simon presses his lips together, thinks, shakes his head. "Next."

Fool Bright folds his hands, runs his fingers over his knuckles. "Electricity."

The hair on the back of Simon's neck stands up. "No."

"No?"

"Next."

"Death."

As he's practiced, Simon breathes out slowly enough to not be heard. "Amusement." Fool Bright shakes his head.

"Murder?"

"More amusement."

Fool Bright leans forward again, his chin passing over his hands. "Nothing else?"

"No."

"Dig deeper. Seven years—"

"You were to give me one word at a time," Simon snaps.

"We're changing directions for a moment. When you…"

"I felt joy. Happiness. I'm depraved." Simon feels exhausted and restless at once, more trapped and threatened than in even most conversations. It's caught up to him that he's trapped in his (in _somebody's_) skin, and he wants to push them (himself) out. A shock—maybe a shock would…

"It just doesn't add up," Fool Bright says. "For a man of justice such as yourself to enjoy killing a defenseless—"

Before he's aware of it, Simon's banged the table. "How dare…!"

Simon bites his tongue. Fool Bright is giving him a curious look, and he realizes how close he's come to blowing his act. Yet he burns at the depiction of Metis as defenseless when he knows with every fiber of his being that in an honorable fight, she would never lose. Either that spy used cowardly tactics, or Metis let down her guard because…

Half of Simon is brought back to the scene he discovered, the blood, that _smile…_

To ground himself, he grabs the coffee, half of which spilled when he hit the table, and without thinking hurls it across.

The movement brings him back. Athena's face is replaced by Fool Bright's, now splashed with coffee while he gapes in what might otherwise have been comical exaggeration.

"We're finished here," Simon says, knocking over the chair as he stands. It's accidental but makes for good effect, he thinks. The thought dies as he turns for the door and sees the guard holding a metal object that Simon barely has time to register before the electricity hits.

Having grown used to the shock beginning around his wrists, nothing could prepare Simon for the impact directly at his chest. He hits the ground with a thud, his elbow twisted under him and his teeth in pain from clenching. Thanks to his cuffs, his wrists smart, and breathing is unbearable; he'd think he'd cracked a rib if he didn't know better.

"What are you doing with my charge?"

Simon almost doesn't recognize the voice, as it has a commanding quality he isn't used to from Fool Bright. He cranes his neck up and stares; Fool Bright has stood, one hand settled on his gun holster, and might have actually looked fierce were it not for the coffee dripping down his face, though it's impressive that he doesn't seem fazed by its heat.

"No need to raise a fuss," the guard says, shrugging with his arms wide. "It's good for the brat types. Couldn't you see he was at the end of his rope? Saving people from themselves is justice, ain't it?"

Apparently Fool Bright's reputation precedes him. For once, however, he doesn't take the bait. "We were making progress before you interrupted. And being upset isn't grounds for punishment. I promised to rehabilitate this man, and I can't allow you to mess it up."

It might have been a nice speech if they had in fact been making progress and if Fool Bright hadn't punished Simon just as nebulously. As it is, Simon feels ashamed. "Tch," the guard says, mumbling something about self-righteous detectives and their pets before leaving. Once the door closes behind him, Fool Bright stops glaring after him and turns to Simon, his features stretching into concern as he helps him up.

"Are you all right?"

Simon grunts, backing away from Fool Bright as soon as he's steady enough in favor of leaning on the table. Fool Bright reaches to rub his back; Simon shakes him off.

"There was no need for you to do that," Simon says.

Fool Bright isn't fazed. "That's not what it looked like. But fear not, a hero is on your side."

Simon is in too many types of pain to argue. "Nobody unleashes their sword on me without proper warning. Someone will pay for this."

"It's my fault for enlisting a guard. Next time, it'll just be you and I, all right?" Fool Bright's voice is quiet again, and without the grating cheerfulness Simon finds it's not unpleasant.

"I hardly see how that would make me safer," he says. Fool Bright pulls a look of shocked offense.

"Sir, you know I would _never_…"

"Silence! There is absolutely no difference between your 'Jolts of Justice' and what that man did."

"W-Well…it's in the name, isn't it?" Simon taps a finger on the table, and Fool Bright fiddles with the strap of his holster. "Names are important," he insists. "But anyway, it is different. I never knocked you to the ground, did I? And I didn't taze you when you weren't unrestrained among civilians. Besides, I'm a hero of justice, and I care about you. That makes it different already, doesn't it?"

The logic is rubbish, and Simon's prepared to point that out—but the fact that he's currently playing the role of the twisted murderer, acting constantly out of disrespect and deception, all with similar justification (he's doing this because he's a samurai, because he cares) gives him pause. While he tries to shake off the comparison, what Fool Bright said hits him.

_I care._

Simon doesn't believe the words—he never has, for how can anyone truly think they'll rehabilitate a death row inmate?—but in his isolation from his loved ones, they strike a need deep within him.

_He's dangerous, _Simon reminds himself. How can a storm shelter him? Even a tree draws lightning toward one. Yet…

_My charge. _Simon is a samurai at heart, and he hasn't belonged to anyone in years.

The thought shames him. It's for his master's sake that he can't allow someone to care for him now. Is his loyalty truly broken by something as inevitable as death?

"Well?" Fool Bright says. "Isn't it different?"

Fool Bright's eyes are earnest, he's close and solid, and for all the grief he's caused Simon, he can't deny that during cases they've been in sync and that Fool Bright has brought him amusement in otherwise monotonous times.

"You should clean that," Simon says, gesturing to the coffee. "We wouldn't want to stain that pristine coat, would we?" Fool Bright stumbles back, his chin tucked under his collar and his sunglasses sliding down his nose, as if the possibility hadn't occurred to him.

_Yes, it's different, _Simon thinks while Fool Bright fruitlessly dabs at the streaks on his coat with his handkerchief. _It's worse. _

xxxxxxx

Pondering Fool Bright offered a distraction from Simon's experience with the guard, but when he's alone there's little to do but remember. While being tazed by Fool Bright made him feel betrayed, being tazed by this other man makes him feel unclean. Long after the stars appear he lays awake, an itch crawling along his skin like bugs under the surface. Rubbing against his mattress gives him no relief, and he growls, wishing there were a way for the devils to be flushed out.

His mind conjures up Fool Bright kneeling next to him with a cloth, pressing cold moisture against searing skin. Sweat trickles down his neck as he closes his eyes, letting himself fancy for a moment that he's being cleansed.

The benignity doesn't last long before he imagines a jolt, the breath being knocked out of him and vibrations traveling along his arms as if pushing away the remnants of his last shock. It occurs to him that electricity while still wet is a fast path to an early electrocution, and he barks with laughter until someone yells to shut up.

It doesn't escape his notice that the guard hasn't wormed his way into nighttime fantasies simply by tazing him. Fool Bright wasn't the first officer to subdue him in that manner, so Simon knew that would be the case, but to have it confirmed leaves a sour taste in his dry mouth.

_Hmph. _He simply comes into contact with so few people that he soaks up any attention given to him. However, knowing the soil is parched doesn't stop his roots from thirsting, and so the hours pass and the detective remains on his mind.

xxxxxxx

As dramatic as Simon's thoughts can be, there's usually no significance to them beyond a way to pass time until his death. The sky is merely overcast, and even if it wasn't, it's impossible to grasp lightning. What type of relationship he has with Fool Bright can't be allowed to matter, not given everything Simon is and the black fate he's chosen.

He reminds himself of that one night when the wind howls. Moisture hits his face, for once not from his eyes but from the barred window that gives little protection against the elements.

In the distance, he hears a rumble of thunder.


	3. To Grasp Lightning

For all Simon has thought about storms, he's displeased to hear one rolling in. The list of things prison doesn't provide security from includes weather, and Simon doesn't relish a night spent cold and wet.

Fool Bright is so quiet that Simon doesn't notice him until he's unlocked the cell door. For an eerie moment, all Simon sees is movement in the shadows, and he's convinced his phantom's come to put him out of his misery. Then he notices white, and though the effect is ghostly enough, he'd recognize the detective's blinding coat anywhere.

Holding up a sheet, Fool Bright jerks his head toward the window; Simon nods and sits upright, scooting to the corner. He's grateful that Fool Bright doesn't speak. Even his fellow inmates are quiet tonight, especially since the cell next to him recently became vacant.

Fool Bright slips out of his shoes and steps onto the bed to tack the sheet over the window. The rain beats audible against the flimsy covering, but the cell is partly dry.

The mattress creaks as Fool Bright lowers himself back down, and in what was otherwise a rare moment of peace it grates on Simon enough for him to grab Fool Bright's elbow to still him. Fool Bright goes still enough for the old mattress not to make a sound and tilts his head toward Simon. It's too dark to see his face, but Simon can imagine wide-eyed curiosity and the dimple in his chin. In a moment that should be surreal, Simon feels that if circumstances were different, he might kiss him; but as things stand, it wouldn't fit, would accomplish nothing, and the thought passes.

As Simon had not bothered to get off the bed and move the few feet of available space, parts of him are damp from rain. Avoiding further creaking, Fool Bright settles beside him, pulling out a cloth and beginning to towel off Simon's hair and face. In the daylight, when rain wasn't beating against the prison, Simon might have pushed him away…but he simply closes his eyes, aware within his lids of lightning flashing and a crack of thunder. At once, all his desires return in full force, stronger than ever now that so much seems in the dark to be within his reach.

The toweling moves down to his shoulders, and it takes some self-control not to wriggle. It's not until Fool Bright begins drying Simon's hands that he realizes he's not wearing his cuffs, an oddity while around his corrections officer. Any time when he can be free of them is a reprieve; he hates the tightness, hates the reminder of the weight he carries, and it makes what he's about to ask for all the more nonsensical.

"Get my shackles," he whispers.

Fool Bright's hands freeze. Simon hasn't opened his eyes, doesn't want to see even the silhouette of his face.

"Prosecutor…?"

It's been a long time since he last heard Fool Bright whisper, as most of what they need to say without volume can be said without words. It's a pleasant sound, he thinks, but he doesn't want speech.

"Silence. Just do it." When Fool Bright doesn't move, Simon can't resist cracking an eye open to find the outline of the remote in Fool Bright's pocket. In the next flash of lightning, Fool Bright's gaze follows his, realization clear on his face before the lightning fades and leaves them again in the dark.

Thunder sounds. Simon dreads the moment when Fool Bright finds words.

"So, you do like when…"

"No." His mind feels foggy, and he can't put words to the idea that that was that and this is this, and he hasn't liked it but he wants_…_

Wants some control, wants something to be his, wants _someone…_

"So would you rather I not have stopped that officer?"

"No, not him."

"Just…?

"Don't."

Simon's face burns. He hears fabric rub against fabric as Fool Bright shifts.

"I don't know what to say."

"So don't."

For once, Fool Bright doesn't. He's still pressing the cloth against Simon's hand, and though it would be dry by now if not for its clamminess, he resumes toweling it off. While Simon longs for silence, he finds himself too impatient not to break it. "I care not what you think of me."

"Oh, no judgment, Sir. I'm just surprised."

This is entirely more chatter than Simon wanted. "Are you doing it or not?"

Fabric rustles again as Fool Bright apparently gets down from his knees and settles into a cross-legged position. "I don't know. Would that be just?"

"How is it more just to do it without my permission than when I'm asking?"

"Th-that's punishment. This…"

Disregarding whether or not Fool Bright's punishment is fair, Simon understands the problem. Their dual roles of prosecutor and detective, convict and officer already cause dissonance; to add such a personal element is downright inappropriate. In his younger days, Simon would have avoided it, but since when has that stopped the Twisted Samurai? Simon rubs the back of his fingers along Fool Bright's wrist, touching little but his watch. Fool Bright twitches.

"You would be doing me a service," Simon says. "But I'll not force your hand. Agree or don't."

"I—you know I'm here to serve you. But we can't do this now; everything's wet. It's too dangerous."

On a logical level, Simon sees the sense in that, but it's not like he cares much for his safety, and it's ironic that someone usually chaotic is inhibiting him now. Besides, when will such a perfect night come again? Still…if Fool Bright is arrested for electrocuting him, Simon can't very well testify in his defense from beyond the grave. He releases an _mmph _of consent. Fool Bright wraps his hands around Simon's wrists as if in place of the cuffs and leans in toward his ear.

"In justice we trust. Just leave it to me."

"Don't keep me waiting, Fool Bright." It's one thing he never complains about. If justice is hypocritical, at least it is swift.

Though Fool Bright offers to stay, the electricity in the air is almost suffocating, and Simon shoos him away until he's ready. He almost regrets it when he's once again alone, but he reminds himself—as he's been doing for years—that he must get used to it, listening to the rain until it dies down to a patter.

xxxxxxx

The clouds weep for days. Simon can't blame them; in all his years, he hasn't run dry. There was a brief period of young adulthood where he grew hardened enough to not cry at every road kill and act of injustice, but Metis's death demolished the floodgates.

Regardless, it leaves him crackling with built-up tension. Fool Bright doesn't come while the rain continues, and though normally a few days without him would be either a nonissue or a relief, Simon can't take his mind off their plan. He's already imagined several scenarios, most frequently one where Fool Bright breaks his promise, to which Simon has refined a response. _Going back on your word isn't very just, is it? It would be further unjust to tell anyone about this…_

Of course, he can't help but imagine the meeting itself. Mostly at night, when it's dark and raining as it was then, he twists in his bed and allows himself to fantasize. It's a rare treat; he hasn't had anything pleasant to picture, anything to look forward to beyond a now passed trip to the aquarium. He should be afraid, but he isn't. He's lived so much fear that the emotion doesn't feel real unless he's facing a noose.

His fantasies are vague: alternately writhing and freezing, in pain and numb, him guiding Fool Bright's motions but also trusting—being able to trust that…he can't think past that. At any rate, his past experiences with the tazer weren't enjoyable, and he doesn't know it will be like in this context. He'll find out soon, he supposes.

xxxxxxx

Simon is facing the wall when Fool Bright enters, again so stealthily that Simon wouldn't have noticed if the clear sky hadn't left him in anticipation. Though he doesn't try to feign sleep, he doesn't turn, listening to what sounds like something being plugged while growing ever more impatient. Finally he feels a tap on his shoulder. "Prosecutor?"

Simon considers telling him to drop the formalities, but he'll feel more comfortable being addressed as a superior. He rolls over. The moon offers some light, which reflects enough off of Fool Bright's aviators to show that he's wearing them even now.

"The security camera's been taken care of," Fool Bright says.

Simon only wants Fool Bright to perform the service and leave, but this piques his curiosity (and besides, the whispering is…helping). "How…?"

"Nothing to concern yourself with, Sir."

The way Fool Bright is hovering over him makes him wary, so he props himself up on his elbows. "I'm surprised you'd bypass regulations."

"I've been thinking a lot about justice lately. It's not just rules—it's personal. You taught me that. So, I thought I should protect your privacy."

Simon has to admit he's appreciative, even if privacy is an illusion in prison. "So, the cuffs…?"

"I didn't bring them."

"What?"

A gloved finger is placed over his lips. "We need to keep it down." Being told that by Fool Bright of all people makes Simon sulk. He quickly forgets it as Fool Bright activates whatever it was he plugged in and a violet orb lights up, casting purple light on his chin. "I thought this would work better."

Not having to wear the cuffs is hardly a problem, though Simon is surprised Fool Bright wouldn't bring them along in case he acts up. "Did you honestly go out and buy…"

"Justice is prepared for anything, Sir." His rushed response isn't lost on Simon, who smirks.

"Then I suppose you won't object to being in charge of all preparations?" Simon tries to keep his tone nonchalant, as if it's only his persuasive power talking and not the sudden realization that he has no idea how this is supposed to proceed. Fool Bright has already turned off the device, but Simon can imagine his grin.

"In justice we trust. Of course."

Fool Bright assures Simon he's tested the device's settings, an event Simon can only trust happened although he's curious what it looked like and whether the detective enjoyed it. After a pause, Fool Bright tells Simon he needs to strip—something that should have been obvious, but Simon had been expecting the shackles, and well, he just hadn't _thought_. Efficiently and without a hint of seduction he sheds his clothes, lying back on the bed that now feels cool against hot skin.

"Ready?"

Simon isn't sure, but he's as ready as he'll ever be, and he's not backing down now. He nods, remembers it's dark (being unable to communicate with Fool Bright through body language disconcerts him), and murmurs a yes.

He's expecting a jolt, not for some cool gel to be spread on his thigh. He jerks away, curling his knees. "Did I give you permission to touch me?"

"You asked me to prepare you," Fool Bright says. Simon can hear the pout in his voice. "How else is this supposed to work?"

Simon curses his own bravado. For all he knows, Fool Bright could be making this all up, but that's the thing—he doesn't. "Give me that gel," he says. Fool Bright hands it to him, and he wonders how many places Fool Bright intended to apply it. Once he's rubbed it everywhere that seems reasonable, he hands it back, and Fool Bright clicks on the wand.

The purple light returns. Fool Bright's face is unusually stoic, as if he shut down—or turned on—a piece of himself, and between the lighting and their positions, it's eerie for someone Simon once labeled harmless.

The globe descends, and Simon squeezes his eyes shut. The moment of anticipation seems to stretch, his heart racing from the unknown of when and where it will hit. He feels it just below his knee, a vibration that makes his leg twitch on impulse. He waits to be struck down, but there's nothing like the pain the 'Jolt of Justice' gave him, simply a tingling and an aftermath of numbing, a desire for more.

Fool Bright explains why the shock is less intense than the cuffs while he moves it slowly up the outside of Simon's leg. It's a highly technical explanation, making him wonder if Fool Bright has a specialty for science and technology or if it's his usual versatility at work. The explanation itself goes in one ear and out the other, as even if Simon didn't distance himself from modernity, a sensation like static is crawling up his hip. He hisses a _silence_ and returns to biting his lip.

Once Fool Bright begins to move down the other side, he increases the setting without warning, making Simon let out a gasp. He clamps his hand over his mouth. If anyone is going to notice what they're doing, they probably already have, but he'd like to tell himself they're being covert.

With the upped voltage, it's hard for him to lie still, leading to particularly undignified positions as Fool Bright continues working on his legs. The control he'd hoped for isn't there; his muscles are at the whims of the electricity, and he lets Fool Bright dictate the direction and intensity. Still, each spark seems to bring his corpse of a body to life, thrilling him the way it would to dance in a rainstorm if he could call the clouds to him.

Before he'd like, Fool Bright stops and unplugs the device. Simon intends to growl, but what comes out is more of a low whimper. He's intensely glad the main source of light is off, especially given his flushed skin and the sweat coating it.

"We shouldn't push it tonight. I don't know how long that guard can be distracted for," Fool Bright says. There's a rustle like he's retrieving Simon's clothes. The moment stretches longer than makes sense, but Simon barely registers it, both numb and replaying the sensations of the last several minutes, turning them over as if considering a new flavor. There's still a lot that's uncomfortable and invasive about the situation, but he feels it could still be pushed further, and he finds that if he leaves it at this, he'll be dissatisfied.

"I'll be counting on you to keep up the good work," he says when Fool Bright returns to his side and places the folded clothes by his head.

"Of course! I won't let you down." The response is as routine as Simon hoped for, and he smiles.

Long after Fool Bright leaves, Simon lies using his clothes as a pillow, focusing on extending his haze as long as possible. It's not until sunlight invades that he realizes the night has passed and he hasn't cried once.


	4. In the Storm's Eye

Simon's tear stains are as dark as ever when he looks in the mirror. The red patches on his legs, however, are already fading, and he takes satisfaction in the fact that his master's marks persist despite his night of negligence whereas Fool Bright's will be gone by the next moon phase.

A less heavy observation, the effect of the night on his hair, keeps him busy combing his fingers through the mess. He's still running through the motion when he spots Fool Bright across the mess hall. A chill runs down him, and he holds back a grimace. He knew seeing the detective again would be awkward, but he hadn't realized the encounter left him so on edge. He orders himself to calm down.

Conversing with the warden, Fool Bright doesn't acknowledge Simon's eyes on him. Simon can't hear their conversation and doesn't particularly care what it's about, but it's not as if there's anything else to watch in the drab setting. It's funny—Fool Bright's mannerisms are too excessive to look professional, yet as his prosecutor Simon knows better than anyone that Fool Bright can do his job and do it with dedication. Not only that, there's something…powerful about him, even from across the room. The warden, who wastes little attention on officers from criminal affairs, seems to be giving it to Fool Bright in full. A few convicts are watching Fool Bright too, though with distaste, no doubt due to his profession. Simon reminds himself that Fool Bright has both girth and weapons that he's not hesitant to use and that there's no need for Simon to guard his safety, samurai instincts be damned.

His hand falls to rest on his knee, a thumb rubbing his thigh where he knows only the ghost of a mark remains. He's not Fool Bright's samurai; he can't let himself forget that.

Apparently through with the warden, Fool Bright catches his eye and waves. It's possible he winks, though Simon can't tell from this distance and returns to his gruel.

On his way out, Fool Bright intercepts the guard escorting him. The hand on Simon's arm almost makes him recoil, but as they walk he thinks that it's—maybe not warmer, but less rough than his other escorts despite its firm grip.

"Briefing in three days?" Fool Bright asks, his voice casual. He waves at an officer, and Simon wonders at his subtlety. In the past he wouldn't have thought Fool Bright capable of anything not forthright. He doesn't exactly have a schedule, so without thinking about it he nods. It's more like checking the forecast than making a date, he muses upon returning to his cell.

To his relief, he cries that night. It's not like he's never taken a night off—until this hellish year began he'd become (almost) genuinely hardened, but the sixth anniversary of his master's death renewed his stains, and since then it's been one nightmare on top of another. Seeing Athena again sharpened his flashbacks, and he's even encouraged her to save him even though seeing her (_smiling_) should have reminded him exactly why he can't afford that. He himself is a ticking bomb that won't be dismantled, but he can't help trying to short-circuit, to push a little before he goes off.

So when he runs dry, he imagines electricity traveling through his legs and wonders where the lightning will strike next.

xxxxxxx

Simon doesn't know whether it feels like an hour or a week until Fool Bright is again leaning over his undressed form.

Simon hadn't realized how detached he feels from his body. For all the sensation (it's almost intoxicating—pleasure in the aftermath of pain, pain following pleasure until the distinction blurs), it's like he's watching Fool Bright tend to a doll that's putting on a puppet show for one. It's not surprising; he's lived another person's life for almost seven years, morphed both inside and out to fit a role until he's not sure what parts of his body and psychology are truly 'him.'

Without warning the phantom comes to mind, and Simon lets out a hiss, jerking the knee that Fool Bright had been lingering on.

"Problem, Sir?"

Simon breathes out slowly, tilts his chin to signal to continue, remembers. "No."

Fool Bright moves away from the spot anyway, traveling up. Not unexpectedly, much of his restraint from the first time is gone. He's already increased the setting, and it's strong enough to pull Simon out of his darker thoughts. Gently Fool Bright turns Simon's wrist over and hovers the wand over the inside where the skin is tender and bruised from chaffing. Simon grunts, and Fool Bright quickly moves up his arm. The inside of his elbow, Simon is surprised to find, is especially sensitive, and he again has to cover his mouth to muffle sounds that aren't complaints.

When Simon can stand to open his eyes, he's rewarded with a glimpse of movement that appears to be Fool Bright twitching from discharge. Smirking, he closes them again while the electricity passes down his waist and up his stomach. As it moves toward his chest, Simon feels his diaphragm tighten. It hurts to swallow.

"Surely electricity shouldn't pass directly over my heart?"

"Ah—of course." His tone makes Simon wonder if Fool Bright's even considering his safety, and his nerves intensify as he realizes they didn't set up a way for Simon to tell him to stop. But Fool Bright is his subordinate—surely he'll still take orders from Simon, even without an arrangement. It's flimsy, unsafe reasoning, but Simon doesn't know how to bring it up, doesn't want to acknowledge their relationship, and, as always, lives under the shadow of the knowledge that it doesn't _matter_, that he knows the date his life will be destroyed by the very institution Fool Bright represents.

Thankfully, Fool Bright stops a moment later. Simon releases a heavy breath.

This time, Fool Bright doesn't leave immediately. "I brought you a hair brush, Sir." Simon touches a hand to his frizz of a mane, receives a shock, and reaches out. Fool Bright doesn't hand it to him. "Sit up."

"You intend to brush it?"

"Thought you might like to relax after that," Fool Bright says, perching on the edge of Simon's bed. Not one to do for himself what Fool Bright can do for him, Simon settles into a cross-legged position with his back to his partner. He's not expecting much, especially when Fool Bright tugs with too much vigor at his snarls, but once he finds a rhythm, Simon's eyes close of their own accord and a calm settles over him.

The eye of the hurricane isn't a safe place to be for long, Simon knows, but that he's found it at all is a gift, and he doesn't intend to complain.

xxxxxxx

The fifth time, Fool Bright handles the gel. Simon says nothing to instigate it, simply returns the proffered bottle and tugs Fool Bright's hand toward him.

It's both incredibly intimate and as clinical as a doctor's appointment. The gloves with the gel aren't the most sensuous feeling, and Fool Bright works in quick motions, not stopping to linger over what could easily be his. Yet Simon can't forget that this is, if not a lover, at least his partner, the most personal designation someone in his position can afford. And if nothing else, strong hands are running over him, and he asked for it for no other reason than to feel good.

To feel good—when was the last time that was even a concept in Simon's world? He's struck by the fact that there's someone willing to help him with it, enough so that gratitude makes him shoo away every memory of Fool Bright taking advantage of him. Perhaps that's it; it would be easy for Fool Bright to do so now, if he chooses. And he isn't. That's not something worth praising, the pocket of Simon from before prison ruled his life knows, but Fool Bright rubs his thighs (on _his _terms), and he stops thinking.

As soon as Simon is suitably prepared, Fool Bright lifts his hands away and wipes down his gloves. Picturing what could happen if Fool Bright left himself extra conductive, Simon smirks. It would shake up their encounters, that's for sure.

Maybe when Simon is released, he'll be freer to reciprocate favors, and they…

Simon's eyes widen. _When_.

Cracked lips part, press together, try to moisten. A chill spreads to what feels like every particle of his body that Fool Bright has touched, and he shudders a familiar shudder. No, not now. In a mere twenty minutes Fool Bright will have left, and then Simon can…

The violet light shines. In seconds it can help him forget, can help him _live, _even if for a few more weeks, for a minute.

"No," he whispers. It's a croak—he's still struggling to contain himself—and Fool Bright doesn't seem to hear. Simon lifts himself up, grabbing Fool Bright's wrist. "Don't."

In the light, Simon can see Fool Bright looks startled. "Huh? But I thought you wanted…"

At the word _wanted_, Simon loses it. He pulls Fool Bright's arm toward him for stability and in an instant is sobbing into his sleeve. The toy drops from Fool Bright's hand and hits the ground with a clack.

Given all the crying Fool Bright does, Simon would think an emotional display would be unremarkable, but he seems confounded, standing frozen with little reaction beyond a muttered half question. Simon supposes he always assumed the only thing stopping Fool Bright from offering him emotional support was that Simon himself couldn't accept it. Yet here he is, acting like a lost child who's found his parent, and Fool Bright either doesn't know how to deal with such a situation, or…

Simon feels profoundly foolish. He himself suspected Fool Bright's devotion to be little but a game. Had he seriously felt, on some subconscious level, that it meant something?

He pulls away. In his cell at night, he may drop most pretenses of pride, but he's not shameless enough to cling to someone who doesn't care for him.

After a long moment, there's movement as Fool Bright reaches to adjust his glasses. They catch a bit of moonlight, and Simon sees that some of the gel is now attached to Fool Bright's coat.

"Feeling better?"

Simon gives a noncommittal _hmm. _

"Do you still want to…"

He shakes his head, realizes his back is to the sliver of moon, and says, "Just go."

Fool Bright seems to hesitate, but he says no more before going to unplug the wand. There's a sound of rubbing fabric, and Simon knows he's trying to clean the gel off.

"Prosecutor Blackquill, what…"

"There's no need for further discussion."

"I mean, if it was because I was the one to…you were asking, weren't you?"

"_Fool Bright._"

For once, Fool Bright takes a hint and leaves. Simon curls up, cold from the early winter air on his slick body, and wishes he hadn't wasted his tears.

xxxxxxx

Even in his current life, Simon is not ashamed of emotion. Metis taught him not to be, and he holds every lesson of hers close, trying to live by them the fullest he can. Not only psychology, but also to be dedicated, to blend logic and feelings, to be passionate while displaying restraint.

His recent encounter with Fool Bright, however, showed no restraint, and _that _shames him. For years he has cried alone, playing the role of Twisted Samurai in public until it became not a façade, but a part of him he wouldn't know how to cast aside. Now he's come perilously close to letting someone else in.

The end is near; he can't trip simply because he doesn't want to face the finish line. Their nighttime meetings have to stop.

He's reminding himself of this when he sits down to one of their regular meetings. He doesn't want to bother with it; there's no case right now, no further leads on the phantom, a fact that gives Simon no small amount of stress. Being trapped in a chamber with someone he'd rather not see, on an agenda they both knowhas no point, holds no appeal.

He brings his best acting, being utterly unresponsive to Fool Bright's words and body language. His apathy is feigned, but his boredom isn't, at least until Fool Bright gets up, checks the hall outside, and locks the door.

Immediately, Simon is on his guard, not that he can do much to protect himself with the cuffs on. He raises an eyebrow, and Fool Bright smiles in a way that's no doubt meant to erase his suspicions. "I just thought you and I should have a chat. There's no need to worry about the security camera, by the way."

Apparently justice doesn't mind taking advantage of its rank. Simon waits silently for Fool Bright to say what he wants. Fool Bright takes his sweet time sitting back down, folding his hands and clearing his throat.

"To be honest, I have concerns about our briefings," he says. He takes his badge from his holster and flips it open, studying it as if he needs to be reminded of its contents. "I'm a hero of justice, and my aim is to rehabilitate you. For a while I thought that, well, I was helping, but…" He flips his badge shut and open, shut and open.

"If you no longer wish to provide me with that service, all you need to do is say so." It's a relief, really, considering Simon had been thinking the same, but his voice is still tight.

"It's not like I don't…I mean, you were so distressed. I doubt you'd share why with me, but…"

"You're right. I won't."

"That's what I thought." Fool Bright sets the badge down, staring at it. "Doesn't using a punishment like that decrease its effectiveness?" he asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

The experiences Fool Bright gave him at night were so different from his 'Jolts of Justice' that it hadn't occurred to Simon that to Fool Bright, it might all be the same. "Believe me, I don't relish being tortured in court. Besides, your punishments are already so sporadic as to be useless."

"H-how so?"

"There's no obvious link between any one action and a punishment, the rate of punishment is variable but not used in a way that I could predict how to avoid it…really, I'm not even sure what it's supposed to accomplish."

"I'm c-correcting your misbehavior, of course." The vagueness makes Simon roll his eyes and ponder recommending a psychology book—but something in how flustered Fool Bright is gives him pause. The detective is avoiding his gaze, fiddling with the handkerchief in his breast pocket, and all at once Simon realizes he's been caught in the same trap he once tried to set.

"You _enjoy_ it," Simon says. "That's the only reason, isn't it?"

Fool Bright claps a hand to his cheek, the handkerchief still trapped in his fingers. "I'm shocked you would accuse me of exploiting you for my own personal…"

In an instant Simon is burning, his knuckles white on the edge of the table, and it takes him a moment to realize why. After all, their nighttime meetings were for pleasure, and he'd never been under the illusion that Fool Bright's punishments were for his own good, that Fool Bright wasn't simply getting a laugh. Perhaps it's simply that it's been a while since their last case and that some part of Simon had forgotten the humiliation, his time in prison replacing it in his consciousness.

Beyond the violation, though, it's the knowledge that Fool Bright was always one step ahead, that even the few bolts Simon wielded were shoved at him by the clouds. Possibly Fool Bright manipulated Simon into instigating this in the first place—it's a psychological technique Simon has practiced, convincing others that a planted idea is their own. And he fell right into it.

With revulsion, he looks at the detective who's been at his beck and call, at the child-like pout on his features and the fingers he's poking together, and he finds a part of him can't believe it. This innocent fool, practice manipulation at a level that preempts the Twisted Samurai? It doesn't matter how many instances Simon can recall that contradict the impression. That white coat and the eager smile that appear when Simon whistles are burnt in his mind, sealed there as if by lightning.

Well, if Simon's going to insist upon perceiving Fool Bright as simple, then there's no reason his handling of the situation shouldn't be simple, too. His subordinate has acted out of line. Therefore he, as his boss, should punish him—or at the very least, not reward him, not play into some overwrought game.

"I'll not be requiring your presence at any more evening briefings," he says coolly, as if Fool Bright hadn't been trying to break it off just minutes ago, as if Simon has any say.

"But Sir, I swear I didn't…"

Simon isn't listening. In his mind, he's already closed the topic, ruling that chapter of his life null. His eyes find the badge still open on the table, and he reads it to himself. Bobby Fulbright, LAPD. All Simon ever needed to know about the man, partner and corrections officer or not.

Infuriatingly inconsistent and impossible for him to grasp, ineffectual and powerful and repulsive and intoxicating or not.


	5. May Lightning Strike

The calendar in Simon's cell turns to the last page, and still they find no leads.

The chief calls Simon into his office to discuss their plan. Makeup must be concealing the bags Simon expects under the chief's eyes, but Simon still notices the wrinkles creasing his face and the way he squeezes his sleeves. Simon is all bravado, partly because he's forgotten how not to be and partly because the chief's strong face seems ready to slip and Simon feels that one of them should hold it up.

The chief expresses his apologies that things aren't progressing sooner, assuring Simon that he'll be free before the month's up. Simon sets down his tea and smiles (or his current equivalent), thanking the chief but reminding him that he's already done more than obligated and that he's not, after all, a defense attorney.

Curiously, this final point causes a rueful look to pass over the chief's face. He reaches to adjust his glasses, and it's gone. "Do not forget that I am responsible for ending this dark age of the law. We have almost a month; rest assured, I haven't given up on you, Blackquill."

The words twist Simon's gut. Of course, he can't afford to have anyone save him, to care to—but a voice trapped in a different interaction is shouting _you're lying, this is just a joke to you_, and before he realizes it, his fists have slammed the coffee table.

The chief winces. Simon tries to control himself. Miles Edgeworth is not his master, but Simon respects his refusal to let power corrupt his integrity, and he's done much for Simon when it couldn't have been expected.

"I have faith you'll pull the judicial system out of the murk, but you don't need a heart as black as mine around to do it," Simon says. His chains clank as he stands. The chief's wrinkles are even more pronounced, but there's little he can do.

xxxxxxx

Half the month passes without change. Simon looks at the handful of squares not crossed off and feels a panic set deep in his bones.

The chief calls for him again, but there is no new information, so Simon declines. He knows the chief is trying to give him an opportunity to leave the prison, an offer he once might have leapt at, but he's grown weary. He wants the next two weeks to pass, and pass quickly. There's nothing left for him; he's done.

Fool Bright is the same as ever, as if they hadn't just shared and resolved a sort of relationship, as if Simon isn't about to die. Like always, it's tempting to write it off as obliviousness, but deep down he knows it can't be. He distances himself as much as possible. Even on the off-chance Fool Bright cares for him, it's best not to give him cause to mourn. Simon ignores Aura's calls for the same reason. Part of him recognizes that isolating himself from her has not stopped him from caring for her, that there's no reason to think that would work the other way around, but he's spent too long on this path to know how to change it now.

Another week passes. From now on, each day will be the last of its kind. It's the end of December, and frigidness has overtaken a place where the government can barely be bothered to pay for basic utilities. Simon hugs the thick uniform Metis helped design, and inside him a cord that's long been rotting snaps.

xxxxxxx

It's early evening, but thick clouds obscure the surviving sunlight. Snowflakes cling to the bars, their lace patterns preserved for several moments before they drip down and pool on the edge. Part of Simon hopes for a blizzard to kill him with frostbite, but that would hardly be a dignified way to face the end after all his waiting.

Fool Bright comes with a tarp for the window and a blanket. Simon tries not to be grateful, but he wasn't relishing the prospect of snow blowing into his cell, and the blanket is warm when he wraps it around his shoulders.

It's tempting not to acknowledge Fool Bright, but it strikes Simon that they might never again have a proper chance to talk, and with the blanket under his chin it's hard to forget that despite everything else, Fool Bright has been a faithful subordinate, a source of amusement, and a bringer of—if not warmth—light in a dark life.

Fool Bright tosses a scarlet scarf over his shoulder. "Well, I should be heading off. There are a hundred needs for a hero of justice on a night like this."

Simon's breath crystallizes in the air when he exhales. "Wait."

Curiosity is clear on Fool Bright's face. Despite feeling foolish, Simon presses on. "I realize there might be a hundred places you're needed, but…"

It's the most vulnerability he can bring himself to display. Thankfully, Fool Bright chooses now to not be (or act) oblivious, sitting promptly next to Simon. "None more important for me to be, Sir."

It's hard to be happy, but Simon feels for a moment that their relationship is again complication-free, that Fool Bright is simply there to serve him and to serve ideals that Simon himself can no longer embody. To Simon's relief, Fool Bright doesn't speak, so Simon sits watching and listening to their breaths. But of course, the fool can't stay silent for long. "Next week—"

"Silence."

To Simon's irritation, Fool Bright's mouth opens. "Near the beginning of our partnership," Simon continues, "I gave you a clear order to never mention that." And to his credit, Fool Bright hadn't, even if instead he'd mockingly referenced Simon's release.

"But, Sir, it's almost…"

"Promise me you won't."

"But—"

"_Promise me_."

For a long moment, they maintain eye contact, Simon's narrowed eyebrows daring Fool Bright to take advantage of the weapon being handed to him. Simon has not admitted to anyone in such obvious terms that he fears death. Both outwardly through morbid humor and inwardly through depression he's embraced it. Yet when he pictures the noose, he can already feel his neck constricting, can hear it snapping, and it terrifies him.

Out of nowhere, the phantom comes to mind, how even they apparently fear the punishment that would result from being revealed. Can he be blamed, then, for feeling the same?

Slowly Fool Bright raises his hand in a salute. "As you wish, Sir. I promise."

Simon closes his eyes. He trusts few people with much of anything, but he trusts Fool Bright to keep that promise, if only for a week.

A week. It's not all bad; it's not as if he wants to stay in this prison, and at least he may be reunited with Metis. What is he truly leaving behind? Taka…Fool Bright has done a surprisingly good job of taking care of him, even though Taka will no doubt grieve his lost half. Aura…he's already cut her out, doesn't want to think about leaving her for good, but he doesn't have a choice when Athena…

He feels the familiar tension building up and holds his breath. He's already cried on Fool Bright once, and he hasn't forgotten how little he reacted. Who knows, perhaps Fool Bright will not even care when…

Whatever snapped in him that morning catches up to him, and before he realizes it he's grabbed hold of Fool Bright's lapels, his wrists shaking and his lungs strained. He doesn't plan it, nor does he desire it, but if only to stop himself from screaming he crushes his lips against Fool Bright's, pressing hard as if by applying enough force he can change something. He's too anxious to slow down enough to explore what his partner feels like beyond cold (so cold) and unresponsive, so the kiss lasts only seconds before he puts a few inches between them, his numb hands still clinging while he whispers.

"Kill me."

One would expect Fool Bright's hands to fly up in an exaggerated gesture, but he simply stares at Simon as if short-circuited. "Bl—Prosecutor?"

"I'm sure you can do it if you amp up the voltage. Why, I bet you would take great pleasure in striking me down."

Still Fool Bright seems to have no idea how to react. "This isn't very funny," he says. Simon throws back his head and laughs, hoarse and hollow.

"For once, I'm not joking. Do you really think I want to wait another week in this makeshift hell? I might as well descend to the real deal and save the prison the expense of my daily gruel."

"Don't…don't talk like that."

"And why not? I have a week to live and nothing to live for. Is it not preferable to take matters into my own hands?"

Fool Bright's brow furrows while his lips make several attempts to shape themselves. "But you just made me promise not to talk about this," Fool Bright finally says. "Is this a test?"

It's a child's understanding of the situation, and Simon is so caught off guard by its simplicity that he sobers. The unnatural iciness of Fool Bright's skin already feels like his memory's fabrication, leaving him regretting the assault and what he asked Fool Bright to do. "That's right, Fool Bright. You passed with flying colors." Exhaustion at his fit catches up to him, and Simon falls against Fool Bright's neck.

This time, Fool Bright places a hand on Simon's head, shifting it onto his shoulder. Simon takes this as an invitation to get more comfortable, making a nest in Fool Bright's scarf. It's winter, after all, and he's inclined to seek warmth as much as any other.

He trembles for perhaps a minute before forcing himself to steady. Fool Bright's hold is stiff, but his body heat is ample, and the palm on the back of Simon's head presses firmly. There's a week left, and it's likely he'll see Fool Bright again before the end—but not like this, when Simon is as unrestrained as he can allow himself to be.

"Goodbye, Fool Bright," he whispers. Fool Bright, as promised, doesn't acknowledge it.

xxxxxxx

Simon feels he should apologize for his lack of self-control, but it's not very Twisted Samurai-like to do so, and he doesn't get a chance. He spends a few of his final days in an almost complacent haze until the bombing and murder at the space center flip him one hundred and eighty degrees into the predator hunting his prey. He eyes the pitiful looking sap they arrested and knows in his gut that this is not his phantom, but it's his only lead, so he puts his all into convicting him.

The bomb detonates, and Simon is thoroughly shaken. It had to have been the phantom, but the police were watching space boy the whole time. Simon has barely more than a day left and no idea who the phantom is—not even _what_, as despite the evidence he holds, he's beginning to feel they're a phantom in the truest sense, a being that can disappear into the fog.

The thought makes him dizzy, but Fool Bright, at least, is solid. Simon didn't mean to let the man support him, but that bomb specialist's warning threw Simon back seven years, immobilizing him, and it was only Fool Bright grabbing his arm and hauling him out of the room that saved him. In the aftermath of the explosion, Simon's knees collapsed, leaving Fool Bright bearing his weight.

"That sure was startling, but splitting our attention at this point would end badly. Let's focus on the space case for now, all right?"

Fool Bright's been talking for who knows how long, Simon realizes. He nods, his mind at least present enough to see the truth in what Fool Bright is saying. Even if Starbuck is not the phantom, he could be an accomplice. Something doesn't line up, but Simon has no other options.

Even if they hadn't resolved (sort of) whatever they might have been (weren't), it is daytime, and Fool Bright is first and foremost a detective of justice, and Simon a twisted samurai—so as soon as Simon can move, Fool Bright deposits him on a couch and asks a guard to watch him while Fool Bright goes to check for injured people. Simon clenches and unclenches his hands, determined to maintain command over at least his basic motor skills.

He focuses on the next trial. He'd expected Fool Bright to decry the courthouse bombing, but strangely his attention is as much on the space center as Simon's. It's one thing to be grateful about, at least, or it would be if Fool Bright weren't acting stranger than usual, evasive and—by all accounts from the officers Simon asks—overly chipper and sensitive. Simon suspects the bombings disconcerted Fool Bright but doesn't have time to worry about it.

Regardless, his curiosity is answered when Fool Bright interrupts the trial. It's been weeks since Simon's last 'Jolt of Justice,' and their recent forays into electricity were in quite a different context, so it's a shock in more ways than one when the current courses through him, leaving him paralyzed at the bench for the second time in so many days.

That laugh booms. Fool Bright appears with a taunt, and in a flash Simon is several months in the past, before he ever guided Fool Bright's hand or cried on his arm. Fool Bright doesn't _change, _Simon remembers, to an extent that's unnatural, and long-buried suspicions bubble to the surface.

Only, it turns out his assumption's not true, because Simon would never have expected Fool Bright to side against him. Torture him, apparently, display a surprising lack of affection…but during cases, he's always been under Simon's thumb, never followed his own sense of justice in opposition to him until now.

As usual, Fool Bright isn't fazed by Simon's insults. "It looks like you've succumbed to this 'phantom' of yours," he says, and Simon feels his neck burn. It's not true—Simon's chained and doomed, but he's still fighting for all he's worth, and what does Fool Bright know about it, anyway? More patronizingly than usual, Fool Bright explains his concerns. It's nothing more than grating until Fool Bright mentions _tomorrow_.

Simon silences him, slamming his fists on the desk. They tremble, and he speaks solemnly, unable to keep up a pretense or bluff. "Fool Bright. You promised never to speak of that."

Something in Simon that he didn't realize wasn't already cold becomes so. It hasn't been a week since Fool Bright made that promise, yet he's already broken it, and not in a way that reads as bumbling or forgetful. Fool Bright is trying to _hurt _him, and he doesn't understand why.

There is one thing he sees clearly, something he knew all along but can no longer ignore. It's a pointless time to accept that he wanted something, and even worse that the outcome sits in him like lead.

He avoids Athena's eye. She has to have understood the implication of Fool Bright's words, and Simon doesn't want to see her reaction when he's so close to carrying his resolve through.

That thought shatters when he reads the name on the forensics report. His voice and expression remain neutral even as he's faced with a life that's ending tomorrow for no purpose, a master he's failed to serve, and a dear niece he can't protect.

Fool Bright is a wreck, though he has less reason to be than Simon, who is still standing calmly. In a way, it's helping him keep up his façade, as if Fool Bright's emotional expression is leached from Simon himself, providing a face to the storm inside him. Though Fool Bright's waterworks at a time like this irritate him, Simon can't help but acknowledge that basic compatibility, the fact that as partners they complete each other and the fact that Fool Bright has provided many a service, and the truth he's finally accepted feels—despite everything—more bitter than sweet.

Bobby Fulbright will never be his. It's hardly his biggest loss, but it's the one he can think about without crying, so he turns it over in his mind as he makes what should be his final trip back to prison.


	6. Reflection in a Puddle

Simon punches the cell walls until his knuckles bleed. When he collapses, all he can think about is that Athena is in the same building—a less dark part, certainly, but one he spent a miserable day in before being transferred to his cell. He wonders if they are treating her well, remembers they treat nobody well, and would get up to continue punching if his body wasn't too taxed.

He spreads questions through the grapevine until he receives word that a guard saw her smiling. It's fifth or sixth-hand information, but he doesn't doubt it for a minute. He suppresses the soreness building in his throat.

It's just as well, because he gets little solitude before he's called to meet with visitors. He can't let down his walls around Aura now, but he is glad to see her face a final time. Wright-Dono's questioning is less welcome, so Simon exits quickly, but not before reciting a confession he hasn't given in a while. A claw seems to shred his insides as he says it, but at least the lie is familiar, perhaps the one thing that's truly his and will remain so through death.

He's insistent upon this even when Aura proves willing to go further than he'd expected and the chief follows through on his promise. Simon can't allow himself to feel touched when Athena is at stake, so he repeats the lie on the witness stand, building upon it in ways that make him want to hurl.

Athena's dedicated study in psychology throughout the time Simon's been festering in prison pays off. Her power trumps even his masking, and the truth tears itself from his lips.

The one thing he had control over vanishes, and he's powerless to do anything as the light in Athena's eyes dies.

Yet a miracle occurs. Wright-dono perseveres, Athena is proven innocent, Simon is free to defend Metis's love for her, and he himself will even be released from his chains. It's night, and the sky is clear above the roofless room. It's all too good to set in at once, but for a moment, he feels he could fly.

Wright-Dono says _detective, _and Simon sinks.

There's no burst of emotion. A slow chill travels from his neck to the rest of his body, from which he feels more disconnected than when…no. He's not remembering—that didn't happen.

Glass seems to separate him from the debate around him, scenarios he can't wrap his mind around as he's too caught up in the basic epiphany that, in hindsight, shouldn't have been one at all. Memories of out of place behaviors line up in a way he doesn't yet fully explore. Finally the mist has solidified into a target. All he can think to do is strike.

xxxxxxx

Part of Simon thaws when he sees his sister, and another when the chief removes his cuffs. He flexes his hands for several moments before realizing he can do more, spreading his arms wide as if to grow wings. Athena grins, spurring him to attempt a smile back. He can't quite move his facial muscles the right way; it's something to practice, he thinks, when this is all over.

He's fire by the time he promises to cut Fulbright down. He tests the name on his tongue: Fulbright—the phantom—his prey. That's all he needs to know.

He's oddly calm when he returns to the prosecutor's bench, his focus as sharp as a blade. Or so he thinks, until Fool Bright steps up to the witness stand acting as clownish and 'oblivious' as ever, making it impossible for Simon to forget that they were partners. His resolve can't waver, but he feels his insides knot, and a branch of doubt takes root.

He looks across the room at the lawyers. This case isn't only his. It's difficult, but he'll have to trust them.

Less difficult is trusting Athena. He should have believed in her all along, he knows that now.

Upon hearing Fool Bright's story, Simon's doubt grows. He recalls Justice-Dono's words: _faith without doubt. _If Fool Bright is worth even a scrap of Simon's faith, he's worth all of it. If not…

He catches Athena's eye. Touching the robot around her neck, she nods.

Fool Bright's stoic face makes Simon feel ill, and he can't pinpoint why until he realizes he's seen it before, illuminated by a purple glow.

"You're an intelligent man, Prosecutor Blackquill. You believe me, right?"

Something in Simon locks up. His eyes must be glazed over, and he's certain that if he checked, his reflection would mean nothing. To put his plan into action he has to face away, channeling all of his training into speaking steadily when he says _I don't believe his efforts were a lie._

He settles into the act after that, whirling, slamming his desk, and smirking in motions long familiar. "Throw yourself at my mercy! And don't you ever betray me again, do you understand?"

As often happens, Simon is so caught up in the performance that he almost forgets it is one until he looks past Fool Bright's wailing and sees Athena shaking her head. Something that he doesn't realize was in flight plummets. His hand clenches. At least now he is certain.

Even if it is the usual hammy gesture, Simon likes to think that Fool Bright's surprise at the charade isn't all mocked, that even if he can't hurt the phantom the way they've hurt him, he can at least disrupt their pace. He laughs a booming laugh, giddy from power. Finally it's his turn to play the puppeteer, no strings attached.

Simon feels nothing when he sees Fool Bright's heart laid out. Later, he may revisit memories with that empty matrix in the background, but for now, if it didn't mean anything to Fool Bright…to the phantom, then there's no reason it should mean anything to him.

The rest of the trial is a whirlwind. The chief's revelation burns Simon. He doesn't want to think about the real Bobby Fulbright yet—doesn't want to think about all he's done with someone he thought was him—but if there's one thing he hates most, it's deception, and it's cathartic to slice off the phantom's mask. Their obvious displeasure when he finds their psychological weak spot is satisfying, even if the fact that they've robbed him of his own identity makes the victory hollow. Their pure terror, on the other hand, is hard to watch, not out of sympathy but from sheer rawness.

Ultimately, it's not up to Simon when the shot rings out, or by his hand that Fool Bright's body hits the ground and goes still. Simon considers examining the phantom's face, but he remembers that expression—remembers where he first saw it—and he's not ready to see who he was with. He looks instead at the moon. The sky is clear, and all is silent. If he squints, Simon can make out the beginnings of rain.

xxxxxxx

He waits for the shock to set in. It never does. Even when he wouldn't acknowledge it, he always knew something was off, and if anything it's a relief to have an explanation. Still, that doesn't mean his wrist doesn't tremble when he dials Fool Bright's cell on instinct, or that he doesn't keep the whistle Fool Bright was trained to respond to in his repertoire, occasionally using it by the window just to see if some bird or other creature will see fit to respond.

Simon attends the real Bobby Fulbright's funeral, but it is an acutely uncomfortable affair. He's mournful, of course, that he indirectly caused Fulbright's death, and that a justice-seeker has been dead for a year without anyone honoring his memory…but he himself cannot do that. Fulbright's coworkers speak of him as a ray of sunshine in a blue sky whereas Simon only remembers storm clouds that gathered in patterns he couldn't predict. Those memories fester. The torture he underwent in court, the laughter, it was all mockery from a nemesis Simon couldn't uncover. The intimacy—_intimacy, _with the phantom of all creatures…

Simon will never feel clean again. Of that, he is certain.

Back in his temporary apartment, he scrubs his tear stains with soap. They are a mark of his grief, of his devotion, but they are also proof that monster molded him, and he cannot look in a mirror without being reminded. Of course, even rain could not wash them off. They'll fade with time, but too much has happened for his tears to cease completely. In the meantime, he promises himself he'll wipe them.

He rinses the soap and stares at a face unlike that of the man who entered prison. His own words return to him. _What must you see when you look in the mirror, Phantom?_

Simon's reflection is undoubtedly something—it's too striking, too deeply contrasting not to be—but he's no longer sure what that something is. He can't continue as he has been, but he can't reclaim the time before that, either. He supposes he'll simply have to move forward, one tomorrow at a time.

xxxxxxx

Even on a day-to-day basis, moving on is more easily said than done. Every room feels like a prison; wide-open spaces, even more so. He's caught in a constant feeling of being trapped in his job, his body, his conversations. When it's too much, he silences jabbering and walks out. Some days, he's ruder. It's too difficult just to function as _anybody_ past the day he expected to die for him to return to being the mild-mannered person he once was.

Over the course of each day his tension builds, and at night, he lays awake wondering how to release it. Athena encourages him to take up jogging, which helps a bit, mostly because she turns each session into a race that leaves him breathless and laughing. Simon visits Aura frequently and finds that they almost get along better now than before their separation, as he can appreciate her darker humor and brusque manner in a way his younger self was too proper to do. Still, he finds it disconcerting to walk in and out of the jail, never sure which side of the glass he's supposed to be on.

Taka is of course a comfort, and there are moments when Simon is watching him fly that he finally feels at peace. It's not enough, however, to stop him from ripping too-soft sheets and rubbing again and again at his wrists.

Inevitably, his mind turns to that person, whoever _that _person really was. He knows they're locked away and still undergoing questioning; he oversaw their guilty verdict himself. They can't hurt him or his family. Yet there are nights when he breathes heavily and wishes they were there, or that he was with them. It's a blasphemous thought, and he begs Metis for forgiveness more than once. Still his tension builds, folds upon itself until he feels as if he's being pulled out of his skin.

One day while in the pet store, an electric collar catches his eye; he reaches before picturing a white glove and turning away from the leashes.

It plants a thought in his head. There's no reason he should rely on that person for help, is there? Isn't the way to reclaim power to reach for it himself, not attempt to guide hands that don't even belong to the one using them?

Lacking proper equipment and too apprehensive to buy any, he tries pressing ice cubes to his skin, rubbing them in circles around his bruised wrists. The sensation is interesting, but only a minor distraction. On an especially stressful afternoon, he steals a tazer from the precinct. He sits shaking on his bed for perhaps ten minutes while staring at it, trying to rid himself of the image of a ghostly hand. He gives up. He'll return it tomorrow and try again with equipment of his own later, if he so desires, or find something else.

On the way to slip it back to its proper place, he hesitates. Given everything the phantom did, would it be so wrong to get a little revenge? He had once thought about where their relationship could go upon his release, he remembers wryly.

But no—there's too much history for him to deal out punishment like this in a way that wouldn't shame his master. She was always teaching restraint and focus. _Do not let yourself be consumed by your enemies; devote yourself instead to helping your loved ones. _She'd told him that when he'd confided his concerns about taking a similar path as many others in law enforcement. Besides, revenge, as appealing as it is, is what landed Aura in the clink. He can imagine how thoroughly she'd chew him out for rejoining her so soon.

That doesn't mean, however, that he can avoid the phantom, not when he has a duty as both a prosecutor and a samurai to squeeze every bit of information out of them. After brushing up on his psychology and visiting Metis's grave, he heads to the prison just as clouds begin to roll in.

xxxxxxx

Simon's emotions begin to shut down as soon as the prison comes into view. It's not new; it happened every time he returned from court, overtaxed and aware of the dreariness and lack of security about to once again dominate his hours. He knows it's a coping mechanism, one Metis told him not to fret overly about, but after the phantom's mood matrix it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

It doesn't last long. As soon as he sees the phantom through the glass, several emotions hit him at once: anger, revulsion, shock, and something identifiable, because apparently the phantom has been allowed to reclaim Fulbright's face, and it's making that blank expression. They couldn't fix the tear he made, Simon notes when he sits opposite them, and to his pleasure the mask sits crookedly.

"You're falling apart," he says, resting his arms on the table. "Is there even going to be something to greet me next time I visit?"

"Oh, you're already planning a next time? I'm touched. But then, I'm sure it's lonely for you." The words hit their target, but Simon won't give them the satisfaction, even if the glint in their otherwise dead eyes suggests they know.

"Silence. I have questions for you, and I won't be sidetracked by a shadow's jabbering." Simon tries to keep his tone business-like (if intimidating, not that it will work on them), his questions professional, but they have too much history, and he's always had difficulties separating the personal from the professional. "Why was it necessary to spend a year as my lapdog simply to steal one profile?" he ultimately asks, crossing his arms and leaning back to hide how much he wants the answer.

"I couldn't just kill you when I didn't know the profile's location, but you were tight-lipped about it. Besides, you seemed to _enjoy _our time together so much."

They flash Simon that grin that haunted him after his courtroom debut, making his toes curl. The prison walls trap him in the memory, and he flexes his fingers, rotates his wrists to remind himself he can. What went through the phantom's mind during their encounters? At the time, Simon told himself Fool Bright was doing it for him,to make him feel good—but of course, that can't be the case.

"You were just trying to break me," Simon says. "It was never about…"

He presses his lips together. He can barely bring himself to meet the phantom's eyes, but he can't afford to show them more vulnerability, so he keeps his chin steady.

The phantom either doesn't have the energy or care enough to cycle through facial expressions, but their voice and intonation are Fool Bright's, creating dissonance that recalls their mood matrix like a twist of an embedded knife. "Aw, but you know, I did have fun. I wouldn't even mind trying to repair our relationship."

The idea that Fool Bright enjoyed their encounters (not that Simon believes a word) is hardly a comfort. Simon's mouth twitches. "Our relationship is less repairable than that mask. You're more foolish than I imagined if you think otherwise."

"Am I, though? If I recall, you already broke it off once, but then…"

No amount of psychological training has taught Simon how not to flush. "We agreed to not…I ended _that_. I had not yet dissolved our partnership."

At this point he can no longer hold eye contact, reasoning that there's no reason to when the one before him is not a full person. His gaze rests on the phantom's hands, anger flaring when he finds the scar. He remembers that hand on him, still tingles when he thinks of it, and his anger flips inside out, turns on him.

"I would never sully myself by fraternizing with you now that I've seen your heart's blackness," Simon says, more to remind himself than anything.

"Is that so? Not that I can't relate, but you don't need to pretend to be so pure—at least, not around me. You lived here far longer than I have. Playing a role, hiding in shadows…it changes a person. I know."

It irritates Simon that they're pretending to empathize with him and horrifies him to think they might be able to. Regardless, he can't deny the truth in what they're saying. When he forces himself to return their gaze, there's little difference between what he sees in the window separating them and the mirror in his apartment.

"You don't belong out there, Blackquill. Neither of us does." Almost tenderly they rub their cuffs, and it's as effective as if they'd reached through the glass and stroked his wrists. _Belonging._ Just as what they offered in the past hit a need, so does this. Yet it's a sham, Simon knows it is, just like their promise of caring. At once it strikes him that they're manipulating him, again, _still_. Which one of them is shackled? It's not Simon, not anymore.

The urge that took hold of him when he returned the tazer resurfaces. He could retrieve it. He could make this beast scream, and nobody would care to stop him. He has the power, the authority, and Fool Bright—the phantom has none. The thought makes him giddy.

He struggles to clear his head. What he lacked most in prison was control over himself. If he gives in, will he be truly free of the phantom's grip?

_Out there. _Already the world outside is grating—car alarms, chatter to navigate, sunlight that stings his eyes. Yet he thinks of Athena, who's become her own sunshine in a world that must be more overwhelming for her than for him, and of Aura, who managed in it alone and now sits locked away in his place, and of his master, who thanks to the filth before him will never see another cherry tree in bloom, and he knows his life isn't his own, knows he can't guarantee safety from a storm without taking shelter.

"That may be so," Simon says, "but nor do I belong with you."

He stands. His questioning proved fruitless, but he'll return to visit Aura anyway, and he knows if he spends another second here, the walls will begin to close in. Laughter follows him out of the room. Though it lingers, he pays it little heed. He recognizes the sound of one who's laughing simply to fill space.

Thunder rumbles in the distance as he steps out under an overcast sky. Pulling his collar around his neck, he hurries home, thinking that perhaps if he makes it in time he'll sit by the window and fancy lightning kissing his fingertips.


End file.
